Randy White - Night Vision

“Show me you where you parked your truck,” I ordered them. “You can lay in the back while I look for the girl. Or stay here if you want. Let the ants eat you, that’s your choice.”

It was a lie. They were going with me.

From my equipment bag, I removed the night vision monocular, then hid the bag behind the seat of my truck. The monocular is fitted on a headband that holds the lens flush over one eye.

When I flicked the switch, the gloom of the woodland ahead vanished. I was in an eerie green daylight world, details sharp. My right eye is dominant, yet I prefer to shoot using natural night vision, which is why I wore the monocular over my left eye. It is a personal preference that wouldn’t have held true were I carrying a rifle or a full automatic.

As we jogged toward the hunting camp-I had to literally kick both men in the butt to get them going-I stayed behind them off to the side. Because I couldn’t get Chapo on the radio, I had no choice now but to go into the hunting camp fast and hard.

Twice, I told Calavero to shut up, stop talking, but he continued to goad me. Breathing heavily, he made threats about what the V-man would do when I found him, then said, “When our lawyer gets you in court, man, how you gonna explain to the judge about my broken ribs? Dedos’s fucked-up face? You going to jail, faggot. Police brutality. We got lots of Latin King brothers in the joint, they’ll love meeting you. Man, those brothers gonna have some fun!”

That caused him to laugh, imagining what they would do to me.

By then, I could see the grille of their Dodge hidden in trees. To silence Calavero, I considered hammering him in the back of the head with the Glock but didn’t. Pointless demonstrations of power-like anger-is for amateurs.

Instead, I timed his steps, kicked his right foot into his left ankle, then brought my knee down hard, between his shoulders when he fell. I taped his mouth, then pulled the man to his feet. As I forced Calavero to lean his head against the fender of the truck, I told Dedos, “You seem like the smart one. Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to speak.”

Dedos nodded eagerly, his face through the night vision lens a misshapen montage of silver eyes and glittering blood.

Dedos got his chance to speak sooner than expected. As I forced Calavero, then Dedos, into the passenger side of the Dodge, the radio squelched with a muffled voice. Pulling the radio from my pocket, I heard a man say, “Calavero, you there, man? Come in.”

It wasn’t Chapo’s voice.

I touched the transmit button and replied, “Hang on a minute. Talk to Dedos.”

Then I pressed the radio to my chest and told Dedos, “Tell him cops just busted through the gate. In a truck. Tell him to leave the girl where she is and run. But”-I slapped him behind the ear for emphasis-“ listen to what I’m telling you. If you screw this up, if they hurt that girl, I’ll kill you. I’ll shoot you in the back of the head.”

To make my point, I touched the Glock to his temple, mildly amused that, beside him, Calavero leaned toward the dashboard so he wouldn’t be hit if the bullet exited his partner’s head.

Dedos looked at me as if I were crazy. “You kidding, man. The truth? That’s what you want me to say to my boys?”

I replied, “Do it!” then held the radio up to Dedos’s mouth.

Dedos was so frightened, his voice had a hysterical edge, the pitch of nervous laughter.

“The hell you talking about?” the pandillero replied. “Stop with your joking. V-man is sick of that little virgin, so we need something in the truck. The chain saw. Check, make sure it’s there.”

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. As I did, the man spoke again, saying, “Wait a minute. You serious? Put Calavero on. You’re joking about cops, right?”

I ignored him, thinking it through. If they needed a chain saw, it was to dismember Tula’s body. And if the girl was already dead, I was better off going in quietly. It was safer, cleaner. Take the men by surprise, one by one. Or just wait for them to finish up and jump them as they left the camp.

But what if they were killing her now?

I held the radio to my face for a moment, undecided. Then I touched the transmit button and said in English, “If you hurt that girl, you’re dead. Understand me? Tell Victorino. Tell him to stop everything and throw your weapons on the ground. We’re coming in. You’ve got three minutes, then you’re going to jail.”

There was a shocked paused before the man responded in English, saying, “The fuck you talking about? Who is this?”

Hoping the gangbangers would abandon the girl and scatter, I told him, “We’ve got your names, we know where you live. We’ll come to your houses if you run. But don’t hurt that girl-or you’ll be sitting on death row.”

The pandillero was replying as I sprinted around to the driver’s side, saying, “I don’t know nothing about no girl, man! We having a party, that’s all…,” but I didn’t listen to more.

I tossed the radio into Calavero’s lap as I started the Dodge, put it in drive, then transferred the Glock to my right hand. Because I knew I might need the emergency break, I tested it to make sure it worked. Then I floored the accelerator, fishtailing toward the hunting camp.

Dedos was hollering at me, calling me crazy, saying, “I can’t see nothing, man! You’re gonna kill us all!” because I drove with the lights off.

I could see fine. Through the night vision lens, my world was sharp and clear. It was, to me, a familiar world, where shadows are unambiguous, a place without shades of gray.

Dedos was right about one thing, though. If Tula Choimha was dead, I would kill them all.

When the Mexican man with gold teeth shot Harris Squires with a rifle, Tula Choimha collapsed on the ground, in shock for a moment, regressing back to the child that life had never allowed her to be.

The lone exception: the night she had watched her father die in flames.

Tula screamed, drawing her body into a fetal position, as her eyes continued to watch what was happening. She screamed again when she saw that blood peppered the giant’s face and chest. But when the big man stumbled… almost fell… then somehow found the strength to keep moving forward, toward the man with gold teeth, Tula’s hysteria was displaced by her concern for Harris Squires.

The girl got to her feet, yelling in Spanish, “Stop hurting him! Don’t shoot him again!” Then she ran toward the Mexican, her fists clenched.

The Mexican was laughing at Squires, taunting him. He was motioning with his hand for the giant to keep coming. With every step, though, the Mexican took a step backward, staying just out of the giant’s reach.

Behind Tula, the redheaded woman was enjoying herself, calling, “V-man… Hey, Vic! Try to shoot him in the balls. See what kind of marksman you are!”

The rifle the man carried, Tula noticed, had two barrels. So maybe the rifle was a shotgun, although Tula wasn’t sure of the difference. Was the V-man carrying the gun in the crook of his arm because both barrels had been fired with one shot?

If so, Tula believed the giant might survive because his spirit was still strong despite the blood that now soaked his pretty blue shirt. The girl could tell because Squires was saying to the Mexican, “Is that your best shot, chilie? That the best you can do, douche bag?” his voice flinching with pain at each step but his eyes aflame, focused on the V-man.

Suddenly, it was as if the Mexican was done having fun, because he took two fast steps backward. Then he pointed the shotgun at Squires’s pelvis, saying, “I want to do this slow, jelly boy. Maybe shoot off your penga, that’ll make you smile for the camera. Then I’ll use the knife.”